balmy air sneaks its way through
the gaps in the cable-knit,
in this finicky colony housing
confused birds and the carnage
of melting snow.
people sharing happinesses,
incredulous – it’s sixty
in the shade. the ground is still hard
and we’re sitting under trees.
californians in parkas,
vermonters in shorts.
february twenty-ninth strolls by:
a fluke in a jean jacket.
walking home
i yell at water in my shoe,
a shock of unbridled joy
in pretending that it’s spring.